


A Hole in the World

by kazvl



Series: Fire and Ice [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, The Reichenbach Fall, oblique reference to childhood abuse (physical), references to suicide and depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:35:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1515749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazvl/pseuds/kazvl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Greg cope in their own way. Sherlock takes an interest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because this series was begun some time before season three, it will continue to ignore the events and characters in the series. That said, there are similarities because I could think of only one creditable way Sherlock could successfully fake his own suicide.

A HOLE IN THE WORLD

Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.  
Edna St. Vincent Millay: Letters

 

CHAPTER ONE

MARCH - JUNE 2011

 

While Lestrade still had the van, and because he needed some distraction from the misery threatening to grind him into the ground, he drove to the nearest IKEA store to buy some basic items of furniture and kitchenware for the flat. By the time he had struggled to put the bed and sofa together his blisters had blisters, he couldn't remember when he'd last eaten and none of the activity had helped in the slightest.

Unable to face the solitude, he pushed food around his plate at the Turkish restaurant on the corner of his street, then took refuge in the nearest pub.

Fuck responsibility. If ever there was a time to get rat-arsed, it was now, he thought bleakly.

But propped on the corner of the bar, deaf to the football match blaring out on the wide-screen TV nearby, he stood staring into the glass of whisky in front of him, turning it round and round with his index finger as he tried not to think of the glasses he and Mycroft had shared. 

The memories crowded in on him, piercing him to the heart. He felt so bereft. How could Mycroft have done it, as if they had never laughed and loved and shared the most deeply guarded parts of themselves? He'd confided in Mycroft things he'd never told another human being, and he was pretty sure the same was true of Mycroft.

Of course, Mycroft lied for a living, so he'd probably been deceiving himself about the strength of Mycroft's feelings.

But even as he thought that, Lestrade knew it wasn't true.

Too much time to think, that was his real problem. He'd go back to work tomorrow and hope he didn't have to see Sherlock for a while. He wasn't ready to have him trampling over -

Maybe he should think about transferring out. The Met. wouldn't care one way or the other and London meant Mycroft and he was sick of London.

Dr Johnson knew what he was talking about, he thought dully.

It took him a moment to appreciate it was closing time. Because he had nowhere else to go, he returned to his flat. Stone-cold sober, he stared around the place he somehow had to find the enthusiasm to turn into a home. After a moment or two he noticed what was sitting  
on the kitchen work top - the one non-clothing item he had brought with him - the die-cast model of the Aston Martin Mycroft had given him back on the island.

His mouth compressed, Lestrade picked it up and after a final glance, dropped it in the waste bin before he went to bed.

Unable to sleep, and wishing he'd had the forethought to buy some cigarettes, he finally admitted defeat and got up at twenty past three. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a warm sweatshirt and went out to rescue the Aston Martin.

He stood, turning the model of the car over and over between his hands as the unnatural calm which had carried him through the last week developed small fissures, which inexorably split wide open. His eyes began to smart and burn, the image of the car blurring until he could barely see it. His head bowing in defeat, his arms wrapping defensively around his torso, a shuddering sigh escaped him before he began to cry in an unpractised kind of way, hurting more than he knew how to deal with.

After some time, his breathing ragged in the silence, he sniffed moistly and wiped his face dry over and over again with the heel of one hand.

It was a few seconds more before he appreciated that he was still gripping the model of the Aston Martin, hard enough to leave red marks embedded in his palm: hard enough to have slightly dented the chassis of the small model. About to toss it away again, he stared at it one last time, his mouth twisting.

How could his life have fallen apart so fast, without him noticing anything was wrong? 

One moment Mycroft had been kissing him with the urgency of a man who knew his world was about to end, the next - 

Lestrade slumped onto the side of the bed as abruptly as a puppet whose strings had been severed as he realised that was exactly what that last kiss had felt like. 

Their holiday in Sydney had been wonderful. While they'd spent time with Len and Annie, they'd had plenty more to themselves, lazing and laughing, as romantic and randy as if they were newly-minted lovers. They'd made love every day - in every way, because of some daft bet, whose details he could no longer remember, Mycroft more frivolous than he had ever known him as he shed the responsibilities of his position, if only for a few days. 

Lestrade was willing to stake his life on the fact protected sex had never been mentioned, which meant Mycroft hadn't taken a lover before the holiday. He would have worn a condom.

Mycroft had been called away the moment their plane landed, but Lestrade knew from a casual remark Balasha had made when she debriefed him that Mycroft hadn't been able to snatch more than a couple of hours sleep since arriving back in England. The odds he'd the time, let alone the energy, for sex were remote.

His expression intent, Lestrade stared into the middle distance, his mind fully engaged by this time. Mycroft knew him, knew exactly what buttons to push. The conniving bastard had looked him in the eye and lied to his face, using the one lie, the only lie, which Mycroft knew he would be too shattered to question, and with which he wouldn't live - infidelity.

But why? Lestrade knew Mycroft loved him, in the same way he knew he needed oxygen to breathe. If Mycroft had lied, he should have spotted him at it, so how had Mycroft managed it, let alone why?

Mycroft had wanted him out of his life; given that he knew Mycroft loved him, the only reason he could think of was that Mycroft's over-protective instincts had kicked in. Which meant there was danger. To Mycroft and anyone around him.

On his feet in an instant, Lestrade rootled in a black sack for a pair of socks and slid on his shoes. He was looking round for his jacket when he slowed to a stop.

If he went haring back to Mycroft he risked buggering up whatever plan Mycroft had constructed - possibly even putting Mycroft's life at risk.

But Mycroft couldn't expect him to sit in safety while he was being threatened in some way... 

If only he knew what the fuck was going on!

Why did Mycroft have to make everything so complicated, Lestrade thought tiredly, just before it sank home - Mycroft still loved him. And while it was a struggle right now, because he could cheerfully strangle the manipulative control freak for putting him through the agony of the last week, he loved Mycroft.

Lestrade wiped his face tiredly and fished out the phone used only to contact Mycroft, or his team. Only then did he discover that the numbers had been discontinued, as had that for his flat in West Kensington. There were options, of course. He could camp outside there, Guardian House, the clinic, the Diogenes Club, or the range. But if he did that, again he risked buggering up whatever Mycroft had planned. Which left the alternative of waiting it out with what patience he could muster.

And when it was over he'd bloody well kill Mycroft, Lestrade promised himself. But the knowledge he was still loved, even if it was by an over-protective idiot, sent him back to bed to sleep for ten hours. And for the first time in a week there were no nightmares.

oOo

 

Mycroft ensured he was away from Guardian House from Friday to Sunday, when there was a risk, however slight, that he might run into Gregory, but on Monday he could no longer put off going home, if only to collect clean clothes.

The moment he entered the still, silent house he recognised his mistake. It wasn't a home, not any more, not without Gregory.

He'd taken so little, left himself with nothing.

Lost, Mycroft wandered from room to room. He ended up in Lestrade's bathroom, scooping up a discarded towel and holding it to his face, his eyes scrunching shut as a wave of longing swept over him. Over the months they had become accustomed to work-related separations but there would be no end to this one, a reality which was only now biting deep.

As he had planned, Gregory had gone. But he hadn't left, he was in every corner of the house, every beat of his heart, and the loneliness felt as if it was crushing him.

Eventually, because he couldn't put it off any longer, Mycroft went to bed. Their bed, where the bedding still had the faintest trace of Gregory on them.

Only when he woke with a jolt did Mycroft realise he must have slept after all. His heart racing, he reached out to make sure Gregory was safe. The chill of the empty space beside him sent the memories of what he had done crashing back, submerging him until he remembered to breathe again.

He had to believe this severing of all ties would keep Gregory safe, even if it felt as if it was killing him not to know where he was, if he was all right...

oOo

 

Lestrade never remembered much about the first month of their separation. It was one thing to realise Mycroft had lied about his infidelity because of some half-arsed plan to protect him, quite another to live in a limbo of loneliness and doubt.

He knew he must have functioned at work. None of his team seemed to have noticed that the heart had come close to being ripped clear out of his body, leaving a hollowed out shell. And by some mercy Sherlock hadn't come calling, demanding work, and excavating his private life for the world to paw through.

It seemed ridiculous that one man's absence could assume such a savage force, not least because he had no idea how long they were to be apart.

He missed Mycroft. Three words that didn't come close to describing the void where Mycroft had been in his life.

Lestrade had always found a way through even the most unendurable moments of his childhoood, locking away his emotions until he could deal with them, a little at a time. He wore a resolutely sealed-in expression, his wretchedness hidden from casual observers. In an odd way, that isolation helped him to survive the separation without breaking, but worry about Mycroft, and the fact days turned to weeks which became a month scraped him raw. Doubt began to erode his certainty that the separation was only temporary when there was no word or hint of contact from Mycroft - or even any indication that he existed.

He even missed the low-key surveillance he had pretended not to know about, because Mycroft had fretted if he couldn't immediately reassure himself that the people he loved were safe. Ironically, given his complaints about it, that loss of surveillance worried Lestrade most of all because Mycroft didn't cut free the people he loved. Quite the reverse.

The knowledge he was stuck in limbo until Mycroft deigned to give him his life back rubbed like a burr against a raw wound. He did his best to subdue his anger because he couldn't imagine Mycroft had done this lightly. Equally, he wasn't convinced Mycroft had thought it through. For all his power, and all his intellect, he was just as liable as anyone else to over-react when people he loved were threatened.

oOo

 

The existence of a mole in his section meant Mycroft could no longer meet Sherlock in the privacy and convenience of his basement suite of offices at the Diogenes, or any of the other offices used on an ad hoc basis. It also meant he had to waste valuable time evading his security, although without Balasha's help that wouldn't have been possible at all.

Mycroft arrived at their rendezvous a few minutes early but Sherlock was already there, as nervy and energized as ever.

"I saw Lestrade today," said Sherlock. "What's wrong with him?"

Icily unamused, Mycroft stared him down with the superiority of seven years seniority. "Suppose you tell me."

"He's obviously not sleeping and smoking heavily. He's developing a gut. His work is of the same mundane quality but..." Sherlock stopped, wearing a dissatisfied expression.

"Yes?" said Mycroft, because he couldn't help himself, because this was the closest he dared to get to contact with Gregory.

"He talks only when there's no alternative. When he thinks no one's watching he forgets to guard his expression and ..." His distaste for such an absurd conversation obvious, Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he stared at his brother.

"Oh, I see it all. He's left you. What did you do?"

Even though he had been braced for it, Mycroft flinched, turned on his heel and left, not trusting himself to endure another word.

While it was Sherlock's first victory over his brother in some time, it brought none of the elation he might have expected; the combination of pain and humiliation on Mycroft's face had put paid to that. But it sent him off to track down Lestrade, away from the curious eyes of his Major Investigation Team.

 

The spring evening was still pleasantly warm when Lestrade emerged from the Underground and headed for the flat he had yet to think of as home. He jumped when a familiar figure emerged from a shop doorway.

"You've been avoiding me," said Sherlock, by way of greeting. 

Looking haggard and frayed around the edges, Lestrade was beyond being able to pin his brave face back into place. His expression closed to one of sullen resignation, his shoulders tensing. "Get over yourself. I've been busy," he lied.

"What's happened? You've moved out of Guardian House."

"Where I live is none of your business," said Lestrade evenly.

"Mycroft's my brother."

"It's a pity you don't remember that more often."

"What did you do?" asked Sherlock, leaning forward.

Lestrade swung away, his shoulders defensively hunched.

"It was Mycroft then," said Sherlock. "Something you couldn't tolerate. Something - "

"Let it go, Sherlock," said Lestrade tiredly, without turning.

It gave Sherlock pause. While he had heard Lestrade in many moods, he had never heard him sound so defeated. "Does Mycroft still have you under surveillance?" he asked abruptly.

Lestrade swung back to him then, his smile a travesty, and nowhere close to reaching his shadowed eyes. "No. Which is a message so clear, even I got it."

As he studied that bleak, closed face with the clinical interest of a collector studying a butterfly pinned to a board, it occurred to Sherlock that he might not know Lestrade as well as he had assumed.

Or his brother, if Mycroft's absence could made Lestrade look this unhappy.

He tried to think what John would do.

"Can I help?" Sherlock blurted out, surprising himself almost as much as the man opposite him.

A soft huff of amusement escaped Lestrade, his expression suddenly more familiar. "No. But thanks. If I get an interesting case I know who to call."

"You don't want to know about Mycroft?"

For a moment Lestrade's expression was nakedly revealing. "My wishes aren't relevant." About to walk off, he paused, dogged by a sense of responsibility for the younger man.

"Are you doing okay?"

"Of course." 

"Good. That's good. See you around."

"Lestrade, wait!"

But he had already retreated back into the Underground station, lost amongst the stream of commuters emerging onto the street.

oOo

 

A humiliating addendum to Gregory's absence in Mycroft's life was how quickly it was brought home to him that the mundane necessities of life were inconvenient, time- consuming and sometimes unpleasant. Food preparation, refuse disposal, laundry...

When even he was in danger of running out of clean clothes, Mycroft was forced to ask Balasha to organise a laundry service for him. While she knew better than to comment, the air was pregnant with question.

Then Moriarty broke into three supposedly impregnable buildings.

Even for Mycroft it took some effort to ensure Moriarty stood trial within a month of his arrest. The speed of his trial was without precedent, causing chaos in the High Court lists, and mutterings from senior judiciary about undue influence from Government. It wasn't difficult to ensure Sherlock became the Crown's star witness. Mycroft tried not to think how the sabotaging of the case against Moriarty might affect Lestrade.

 

The farce of Moriarty's trial left Lestrade about as popular as a dose of clap with senior officers at New Scotland Yard, as they blamed him for Sherlock's lamentable performance in the witness box, and the field day the Press were having with what was seen as police inefficiency at best, corruption in high places at worst. The photograph which kept appearing in the tabloids was that of Lestrade looking even more rumpled than usual, with twenty hours growth of stubble and a shifty expression - which was suspicious unless you happened to know he'd been dying for a pee at the time the picture was taken.

Emotionally bruised, and so lonely he ached with it, Lestrade kept his head down and tried to find a reason to get up every morning, missing Mycroft more with each day.

He kept hoping that with the trial over, Mycroft would contact him but nothing changed, except that he began to doubt himself, wondering if he'd just been kidding himself all this time that there was any chance that Mycroft still wanted him. 

 

Just after the first May Bank Holiday Lestrade ran up the steps from the Underground and hurried out onto Victoria Street; he'd been so exhausted he had slept through the alarm. Squinting in the sunlight, he paused when he saw the fruit stall, before stepping up to it. He was already so late for work, a few more minutes couldn't hurt. And he had to stop eating crap.

"Morning, Greg. I haven't seen you for a while."

Lestrade found a smile from somewhere. "Morning, Harry. You mean you missed the news?" he added with a grimace. "Half a kilo of apricots, a couple of peaches and a banana. Business okay?"

"Mustn't grumble. All this sunshine helps. You might want to try these strawberries. They've got a great flavour." Harry handed Lestrade the punnet, so he could try one.

"Mmn," agreed Lestrade, through a mouthful of plump strawberry. "Stick the punnet in the bag."

Harry stepped closer under the pretext of handing it to him. "I might be imagining things but it looks like some bloke's following you."

Lestrade's heart leapt. "Yeah? Can you describe them?"

"I can do better than that, I can take their picture. Start posing." Harry handed Lestrade a pineapple and started to take pictures on his Smart phone, making a joke of the various poses, while Lestrade hammed it up.

It was smoothly done. At the end, Lestrade stared into the screen. Not one of Mycroft's people but the man who had terrified him into living on the streets rather than the Care Home; the man who had probably murdered most of his family in the Sixties; and who had certainly been involved in the murder and dismemberment of so many homeless people.

The back of his neck prickling, Lestrade handed back the phone. "Keep hold of it till I can get back to you," he muttered, already dialling his own phone as he called for backup. 

"But quietly, Donovan. One false move and we'll lose him in this area during the rush-hour.

"Thanks, Harry." Lestrade tucked away his phone and gave the burly stallholder a fifty pound note, waving away the change.

"Give over," said Harry with scorn, thrusting it back in his hand. "Over the years you've been one of my best customers. I'd like to keep it that way. You go careful, he's a dangerous looking bugger."

"Looks aren't deceiving in his case, so steer well clear of him. So much for subtlety," groaned Lestrade, as the sound of police sirens coming from several directions made everyone look round.

"He's taken off down Victoria Street," said Harry.

Lestrade dropped his purchases and hared after him, zig-zagging round commuters hurrying to work and the tangled rush hour traffic. But he lost sight of Armon, Roman, or Moran, or whatever name he was currently using just before the House of Fraser department store.

Once Lestrade had recovered his breath, he tore a strip off his back-up and put out an all-points bulletin, before going to the Yard. But with the best will in the world he couldn't shake off the dread he felt at seeing Armon again; that face had appeared in too many nightmares over the years. He found an excuse not to go out for lunch, eating the over-priced sandwich Donovan brought in from Pret a Manger. Unable to shake off the feeling he was wearing a target on his back, and feeling uncomfortably vulnerable if Armon was hunting him, he took rare advantage of his rank and hitched a ride home in one of the response cars.

After nightmares in which Armon stalked him through the tunnels of London, while he couldn't move his feet, Lestrade got up early. It had occurred to him that Mycroft needed to know Armon had surfaced, if only because it probably meant that Moriarty was close by. He left the flat before dawn, stopping at the first CCTV camera he found that didn't have too much passing traffic.

Staring up at it, Lestrade said, "Moneypenny, tell himself that I'm sick of his Roman holiday. Understand?"

Then he went to work, and waited.

It was a full week before he finally accepted that there would be no response. Perhaps he'd been wrong all along. Perhaps it really was over. Why else would Mycroft ignore that clear message?

oOo

 

Between the always heavy demands of his job, trying to track down the mole in his section, and keeping Moriarty in play while trying to protect Sherlock, Mycroft felt like a piece of over-stretched elastic. And that ignored the gnawing loneliness of a life in which Gregory had no part.

Mycroft had always felt emotionally isolated from others, but never more so than now. He felt cut off from the sights and sounds and smells of ordinary life, trapped in a gilded cage. Touch-starved, the closest he ever came to intimacy these days was shaking someone's hand. The effort of being who he was required to be at work, and again with Sherlock, was beginning to tell on him.

Today he had intended to go for a walk for some much needed exercise instead of eating a plastic sandwich, but the time had come and gone and, as usual, he had worked through the chance of a break - not because the work was so urgent it couldn't wait for an hour, but because it avoided the risk of walking through parts of London forever associated with Gregory.

Mycroft was confident his ability to make sound decisions hadn't suffered, but he suspected he was sharper with those in his section. There was a layer of barely concealed impatience that overlaid his dealings with everyone. Small-talk, his stock-in-trade, became increasingly difficult to sustain, and his patience with politicians couldn't always be relied upon.

Sherlock was on edge - small wonder with Moriarty on his back - and there was the constant worry that he might slip back into addiction. It was a dangerous game they were playing, but if Moriarty had found enough experts capable of cracking internet security wide open it was vital they knew about it in advance.

With a small start Mycroft realised the car was sitting outside Guardian House. Thanking his driver, he entered the house, the silence wrapping around him like a shroud.

He slung his jacket over one shoulder and unfastened his tie, which felt as if it was choking him. Unwilling to go up to their bedroom, where the memories were the sharpest, he wandered aimlessly into the library, to touch again the books Lestrade had been looking at before he left. From notes he'd been making, he'd been researching some of the older tunnels under London, and also the history of Greenwich. There were several works of fiction stacked under his ebook reader: Great Expectations, Bleak House, Brick Lane, Hawksmoor and Keith Waterhouse's Soho. All recommendations he'd offered when asked for fiction which featured London.

He didn't open the ebook reader, it would have felt too much like prying, but he touched the cover lightly before drifting away.

Tired beyond the ability to sleep, his mind a treadmill of doubts and regret, he went into the kitchen and made himself some tea before going up the next flight of stairs to the master suite, with all its taunting reminders of a time when he'd been happy.

He tried, yet again, not to think what the collapse of Moriarty's trial must have done to Gregory, both personally and professionally; the press were certainly having a field-day with him. Gregory was too shrewd not to suspect outside influence regarding the trial, Sherlock's appearance in the witness box completing the farce. The pictures of him made it obvious he wasn't sleeping, and from what Sherlock had said he was smoking heavily...

That night staring up at the ceiling, worrying about Lestrade, Mycroft finally fell into an exhausted sleep, only to start awake after a series of nightmares in which he'd been unable to keep Gregory from harm. 

He resisted the impulse to have a drink because he no longer trusted himself to stop at one, or even two. One alcoholic in the family was one too many, the fear of turning into his father something which had haunted him since he was a child.

Cup of tea in one hand, he padded to one of the long, elegant windows which overlooked St. James's Park and drew back the curtain. Because London never slept, there were still cars and even tourists strolling along Birdcage Walk, lovers with their arms around one another, their steps in synch.

Normal life.

Not that his life had ever equated with what was normal, until he had met Gregory, who had made him feel a part of the human race.

As his focus pulled back, Mycroft became aware of his reflection in the window. With the light behind him, his face was pale, almost ghost-like. Anything in him that had ever been worth much was fading without Gregory's warmth to nourish it.

Mycroft knew he should try to get back to sleep. Instead, he sipped his now cold tea and continued to stare out of the window until he was almost out on his feet. Even then he resisted the idea of going to bed, but he took the first step of drawing the curtains, then turned to stare at the unmade bed, the linen unchanged since Gregory left because he couldn't bear to lose that last fragile contact.

Gregory wrecked every bed he occupied within minutes, rucking up sheets and hogging the covers. He wasn't a peaceful bedmate.

Mycroft closed his eyes on a wave of longing. 

He missed him. Missed the scent of him, waking, sleeping, after a long day at work, or fresh from the shower. Missed the warmth of him - a warmth which had nothing to do with the physical. He missed listening to him talk - about his day, an item of news that had caught his attention, about their life, or some arcane piece of information about London. The affection in his quick smiles, the casual touches, being drooled on. Missed him more than he knew how to deal with.

Middle-aged men weren't supposed to fall romantically in love, let alone pine. 

They weren't supposed to betray that love, either, he reminded himself acerbically.

The silence of the house pressing down on him, he wondered when the longing to be with Gregory would stop - or at least reduce to a level where he could ignore it.

He'd been wiser than he knew. Caring was a bloody handicap to rational thought but he didn't know how to stop and, strictly in the privacy of his own head, had no wish to do so. That would be one betrayal too many.

He got back into bed, the scent of Gregory long since lost and stared out into the darkness. He wanted Gregory back in his life - presuming he could ever persuade Gregory to forgive him.

So much power to so little point, if he couldn't even guarantee to keep his lover safe.

Fuck it.

Done with maudlin sentimentality, Mycroft pulled on his dressing gown and went into his office to continue the tedious and painstaking checking of minutiae necessary if he was to identify the mole in his section. So far they'd only managed to clear three junior members and - much to his relief, because he relied on him so much - David. 

 

oOo

 

Afterwards, when it was all over, Lestrade still couldn't identify the moment when it all began to go wrong, events sliding out of his control at a faster and faster rate.

Maybe if he'd been fully focussed he could have nipped in the bud Donovan and Anderson's witch-hunt against Sherlock. Or at least given Sherlock his full support. But even in his worst nightmares he'd never expected Donovan to come in on a chilly June day, her face stiff with shock, to tell him that she'd just heard the news that Sherlock had committed suicide by jumping from the roof of Bart's Hospital.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay, real life not only ate May but more of June than I was anticipating.
> 
> This chapter is still a little rough around the edges, so I may have a tweak later.
> 
> Given that this chapter deals with the aftermath of Sherlock's 'suicide', and the affect on those who love him, please don't read if it might be triggery for you.
> 
> It has, of course, be overtaken by Season 3, which this series will continue to ignore. I would say the series is now AU but, unless I missed something, it always has been. Though I'd pay good money for Mystrade on screen. Wonder if they'd consider a payment plan...

CHAPTER TWO

THURSDAY, JUNE 16th 2011

　

About to rush over to Barts, and bugger which senior officer's toes he stepped on, Lestrade was almost at the door when the call came down from the Assistant Chief Constable. He was kept hanging about in the ante-room under the stony gaze of DCS Robinson for what seemed like forever - which was bad news in itself. The meeting was short and brisk, with Robinson at the ACC's shoulder throughout as he was informed that he was suspended on full pay, pending an investigation of all the cases on which Sherlock had worked.

Numb with disbelief and grief at Sherlock's death, Lestrade only just stopped himself from shrugging; while he resented the suspension, it was hardly a surprise to be thrown to the wolves by senior officers. He wasn't particularly worried about any investigation because he knew his work was solid. Sherlock might have been a genius, but he was the one who had painstakingly ensured that each case was as sound as he could make it. More, he had copies of every filmed press conference of one of Sherlock's cases, where Robinson or the ACC had been present, eager to grab whatever glory they could, so at least they couldn't deny they'd known exactly what was happening.

To Lestrade's poorly concealed disgust, he was asked to clear personal possessions from his office under Robinson's watchful eye - that a humiliation he hadn't anticipated - before being escorted from the building like a criminal.

By the time he had dumped his belongings at his flat and taken a taxi back across London to Barts, it was gone five. Without a warrant card, Lestrade wasn't able to get close to the scene of Sherlock's death, and it was more by good luck than judgment that he wasn't spotted by the hordes of press still milling around.

Worried sick about Mycroft, but with no means of contacting him in a way that wouldn't risk attracting attention that could be fatal for Mycroft, Lestrade went over to Baker Street.

Mrs Hudson was inconsolable, having heard about Sherlock's death on the six o'clock news. She had no idea where John might be.

"He was there, you see," she hiccuped, "when Sherlock... The news said John was walking up to the hospital when... He saw it happen. Oh, I can't bear to think of it."

Lestrade wrapped his arms around her, gentle with her fragile bird bones, which housed such a fierce spirit. Then he let her make him tea he didn't want, because she clearly needed to feel she was doing something.

"Can't you find out anything?" she demanded fretfully, fidgeting with the necktie of her blouse.

"I can try," said Lestrade with caution.

Because news of his suspension wasn't yet common knowledge, he managed to blag his way through Barts main switchboard to speak to the ward sister. He learnt that John was sedated and would be spending the night in hospital, and that his sister, Harry, was on his way.

"I'd best go to the hospital," said Mrs Hudson, who had made no bones about eavesdropping. "He'll..." Tears welled up again. "How's John going to get through this?"

Lestrade shook his head, unable to pretend he had an answer. He wasn't sure how any one of them were going to get through it.

If it had been Mycroft...

Oh, God, Mycroft.

Surely now, of all times, it couldn't matter if he contacted him. But because it might, because it might even prove fatal if he drew attention to Mycroft, Lestrade forced himself to stay away, not least because he was honest enough to admit that any contact would be as much for his own comfort as Mycroft's.

　

　

After fifty six of the most terrifying minutes of his life - the period between receiving Sherlock's initial text, and the confirmation that he was alive and unharmed, it was another five hours before Mycroft was back in the country and so free to go to the hospital to confirm the truth for himself.

His face paper white, his mouth thinned to near invisibility, and his eyes arctic, Mycroft swept down corridors like the wrath of God, his grim-faced security detail trying to anticipate his every need.

"Stay here, however long I might be," Mycroft commanded, without pausing to look behind him. They knew better than to argue, today of all days.

He burst through the doors of the mortuary, barely sparing Molly Hooper a glance.

"Where?" he demanded, dividing his gaze between the three other doors.

"Through there," Molly gestured, swallowing whatever else she had intended to say as she handed him the key.

Mycroft's brittle control broke the moment he saw Sherlock propped against the tiled wall, the brilliant light and white tiles combining to leach away what little colour he had ever possessed. His arms wrapped around his torso, Sherlock was visibly bruised and clearly in a state of mild shock.

"Of all the fucking stupid stunts," Mycroft rasped. He took Sherlock's shoulders in an ungentle grip, his hands tightening over bone and sinew, needing to prove Sherlock was alive.

"I had no choice," said Sherlock nervily. "Not with three sharpshooters in place, ready to kill John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade if I didn't jump.""You took the word of a psychopath that they wouldn't be killed anyway?"

"I had to hope they wouldn't," Sherlock said simply. "It was the only option. And I might remind you that you're not squeezing toothpaste from a tube," he added mildly. "I've enough bruises without you adding to them."

Mycroft belatedly relaxed his grip, before he tilted Sherlock's head to one side the better to examine his scrapes and bruises. "You're sure you're not seriously hurt?" he checked, his gaze strip-mining his brother's face for clues.

"I'm not sure about anything at the moment," admitted Sherlock, fidgeting with nerves. "It was...more difficult than I had anticipated. I wasn't sure I could bring myself to jump in time. Is he all right? Molly said he was but..."

No need to ask who 'he' was, thought Mycroft wryly, too preoccupied to notice the oblique compliment he had been paid. "I doubt if any of us are that. He believes - with good reason - that he saw you jump to your death. He's in hospital, sedated. He'll remain there tonight. Mrs Hudson's sitting with him."

A little of the tension left Sherlock's bony shoulders. "Your people have dealt with the sharpshooters?"

"Of course. Hired killers are two a penny."

"And Moriarty?"

"Dead."

"You're sure. I mean, I know I saw him shoot himself but - "

"I'm positive," said Mycroft, with the calm, flat conviction which had reassured Sherlock in the distant days when he had always trusted the word of his big brother. "Medical students will be working on his dissected remains tomorrow morning. And no, you can't - " he anticipated.

"Pity," said Sherlock mildly.

He was still shivering with a mixture of delayed shock and the chill of the room. Mycroft shrugged out of his overcoat - June had yet to flame - and slipped it around his brother's shoulders before touching him lightly on the cheek.

"Don't fuss," grumbled Sherlock, but he leant into the reassuring contact.

"I won't," Mycroft promised, but he stayed close enough to share his body heat. He continued to study his brother, unable to credit how lucky they had been.

"I told you my plan would work," Sherlock said into the silence, with a trace of his usual arrogance.

"Don't push your luck," Mycroft advised him. But he managed a faint smile, although his own hands were less than steady, even now. He was squinting against a vicious headache which had made its presence felt just after Sherlock had texted him the first time. It was one thing to have plans for various options, quite another to know your brother had jumped from the roof of Bart's hospital. If they hadn't got the air-bag in place in time, or if it had been faulty... If Sherlock had misjudged the jump, hit the edge and bounced onto the unyielding pavement... The possibilities for disaster had been endless.

Mycroft fished in his jacket pocket and was about to light cigarettes for them both when Sherlock silently pointed to the smoke alarms. With a sigh, Mycroft put the packet away again. The last thing they needed was for his security detail to rush in, there were more than enough people involved in the cover-up as it was.

"You realise you'll have to remain in hiding - dead to the rest of the world," Mycroft said.

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"I'm serious Sherlock. Until my people are satisfied that we've accounted for all the senior members of Moriarty's organisation no one else must know you're alive. As far as we're aware, none of Moriarty's people know he's dead - and as his body will never be found they may not realise for some time. But eventually his absence will result in a power-struggle for control of the lucrative areas of his organisation. While, obviously, we have no direct knowledge of his command structure, I'd wager he used unpredictability to control them. Most of his people will be too busy scrambling for power to care what's become of him, but even James Moriarty might have one truly loyal lieutenant. And that's all it would take to ensure your death - not to mention the deaths of those you jumped to save. You can leave his organisation to my people," Mycroft continued. "I haven't been idle this last few months. Those key players we knew of are already under surveillance - and not just in Britain. By the time you're away - "

"And where do you imagine I'm going?"

"Somewhere you won't endanger the lives of the three people you love."

"Love," sniffed Sherlock, but he ruined the effect by adding, "How badly affected is John?"

"He's...distressed," said Mycroft, as if that was the first time he had been asked that question. "I will do everything in my power to keep him safe. If you've changed your mind, it would be ease itself to - "

" - kidnap him? Look how well that went last time. No, John's safer here, where you can watch over him. I miss him already," Sherlock confessed raggedly, his emotions nakedly exposed before he ducked his head from view, as if braced for ridicule.

Mycroft touched him lightly on the shoulder. "I know," he murmured.

"How can you understand," savaged Sherlock in an abrupt change of mood. But when he saw Mycroft's eyes flinch he fell silent, his mouth twisting. "I forgot Lestrade," he muttered. "But he's safe now. I kept him alive for you.""I hadn't forgotten," Mycroft said, outwardly as calm as if they were discussing the weather. "I will always be in your debt for what you did." It was salt on an open wound. He had severed all ties with Gregory, in the hope of keeping him safe, and had nearly got him killed because he hadn't given Gregory's connection to Sherlock a thought.

"I should record this," grumbled Sherlock, holding Mycroft's coat close as he began to pace around the small room, favouring his left leg.

"Do you need to see a doctor?" asked Mycroft with a frown.

"It's just bruising. Molly checked. Have you got somewhere more interesting to be?" Sherlock added, when he saw Mycroft glance at his watch again.

"No, but you do. You, brother mine, are going into hiding."

"I'd go mad shut away with you," said Sherlock with conviction.

Mycroft gave him an unfeigned look of horror. "You wouldn't be the only one. I thought Norway for the first few weeks. Great-uncle Sigerson owns a number of laboratories. I'm sure you'll be able to find plenty to occupy you."

"You'll guard John?"

"Of course," repeated Mycroft patiently. "Um, it's time to get you out of here..." His voice trailing away, he pensively eyed the open coffin awaiting its live occupant. "My people will take you to the house the estate owns in Hampstead. It's relatively private. I'll contact you there." He handed Sherlock a burner phone. "Do not call anyone, for any reason. Your word."

"I'm not a complete idiot." Sherlock gave Mycroft his overcoat back with obvious reluctance.

Mycroft ran his hand gently over Sherlock's flattened curls, before cupping the back of his head. "Indeed you're not. Keep safe. I believe I would miss you. Now, it really is time," he added with obvious reluctance.

"Squeamish?" mocked Sherlock.

"I think I must be."

"You must have a fever." His face set, Sherlock settled himself in the coffin - which was almost a foot too long for him. He wriggled to try and find a position of comfort. "I hope this isn't the cheapest model," he said, flippant to disguise how much he was dreading the moment the lid was fastened down.

Mycroft fished inside his overcoat and produced a sturdy knife with a wide, lethal looking blade, together with a screwdriver.

"Just in case," he murmured, with untypical vacuity. He knew he had made his point when no sarcastic comment was forthcoming.

He fished in his other pocket for a small torch with a powerful beam. "Don't use it unless you have to. It would hardly do for light to be visible through the air holes."

"Always one for stating the obvious. Well, don't just stand there, close the lid," commanded Sherlock in something of his usual tone as he squirrelled away the tools.

"It won't be long," promised Mycroft.

As if he couldn't help himself, Sherlock's hand shot up to grasp Mycroft's wrist, his expression urgent with what he would never say.

"An hour at the very most," said Mycroft. He made no attempt to free himself.

Sherlock nodded and tucked his arm back inside the coffin.

His own expression set, Mycroft quickly drew down the coffin lid and fastened it, before summoning two of his most trusted people. Dressed in funereal black, they brought in a wheeled trolley to take the coffin down to the undertaker's van waiting outside an inconspicuous side door. They would be remaining at the Hampstead house with Sherlock because otherwise the odds were that Sherlock would be back on the streets before the day was over.

As the coffin left the room, Mycroft exhaled softly, shrugged back into his overcoat, and went to see Molly Hooper, without whom none of this mad plan could have hoped to succeed.

　

　

The smell of formalin was strong in the mortuary. While not a fanciful man, Mycroft found it an eerie place, particularly given that all the staff had long gone.

"Dr Hooper, we are in your debt. I know today must have been a particularly taxing one for you."

"Not just for me," she said staunchly. She held his gaze without apparent difficulty.

"Indeed no. To reiterate, I will do my utmost to protect you, should that become necessary."

Her glossy ponytail - a style in danger of becoming too young for her - bounced as she nodded. "I know. You said."

Not for the first time, it struck him that, when she needed it most, she exuded a calm competence. It was unfortunate that Sherlock should reduce her to stammering incoherence.

"You're certain Moriarty's body won't be recognised?" Mycroft checked.

"You already know it's been dissected, ready for the medical students to work on tomorrow. The head was hidden under the raised padding in the foot of the coffin that took Sherlock away. That's why it was slightly too long," she explained, colour pressed from her voice.

It wasn't every woman who got to decapitate and dissect the lover who had betrayed her, Mycroft mused, by this time feeling a little spacey from stress, pain and a lack of sleep over a prolonged period. He grimaced.

"Sherlock will never forgive me for that."

She gave the ghost of a smile, before handing him a slim folder. "Here's a copy of my report on Sherlock's post-mortem, which will go off to the Coroner later tonight. You haven't forgotten that you'll need to register Sherlock's death in person, at the earliest opportunity?"

"I'll do so first thing tomorrow morning," he confirmed. "Your morgue assistants?"

"Grateful I was an easy touch and sent them home early - before they knew we had Sherlock's body." There was a dryness to her voice Mycroft hadn't expected.

"I believe the inquest into Sherlock's death will take place within the next four days. In view of the publicity, there's a great deal of public interest. While it's unlikely, you may be called to give evidence in person, rather than just through this report," Mycroft warned.

She shrugged. "It's perjury either way. I considered that before agreeing to help."

While he had his doubts about that, Mycroft nodded. "I deeply regret that it was necessary to ask you to work on James Moriarty's body."

Molly flinched then, her expression closing; the combination of her lack of animation and the bright lights made it obvious how tired and stressed she was beneath her surface calm.

"I must go. Is there anyone - ? Will you be all right?" he asked, because it was what Gregory would have said.

She blinked, as if seeing him for the first time. "You're not like Sherlock."

"Not the first time I've been told that."

She gave the faintest of smiles. "It wasn't a complaint. You don't need to worry about me, Mr Holmes."

He paused, then turned at the door, his expression unguarded for once. "Mycroft," he said. "After today, it's the least I can offer. You have my number?"

"And your assistant's."

"Blame the company I've been keeping for this untypical burst of sentiment," he said, and left, wondering how many more people would be caught up under the wheels of the Holmes' brothers chariot.

He emerged onto the corridor that led back to the main hospital to find David waiting for him, the rest of the security detail out of sight - and earshot.

"I thought Fatima was on duty tonight?" said Mycroft, his voice sharp because he was still on edge.

"I asked her to swop so I could go with Alice to get Jamie inoculated tomorrow morning. That part's true, incidentally. Um, with the press all over your brother's 'death' it occurred to me that some extra options might be helpful." David reached inside his jacket and produced a small padded envelope. "Alice's youngest brother has a cottage outside Southwold, right next to the bird sanctuary. Only he's out in Dubai until August and left everything with us in case anyone wanted to rent the place. This contains the address and the keys. The only people who'll be around are twitchers. Also there are the details of the mooring bay for his boat, and the keys. It's only a thirty footer but it might come in handy. If anyone wanted to use it. I told Alice a mate at work was interested in renting it for the next month, so no one will go up there," he added.

"David..." Mycroft looked as close as he ever came to helpless. "I can't - "

"I know that, sir. But take them anyway. You never know. You might fancy a break yourself."

Mycroft slipped the envelope inside his dark blue pin-stripe jacket. If everything checked out, it would make getting Sherlock away to Norway a little easier - although not in a thirty footer.

"If I involve you, there may be legal repercussions should something go amiss," he warned.

"Your plans don't tend to go wrong."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"Often," amended David, drawing the faintest smile from Mycroft.

oOo

Returned to the emptiness of Guardian House, Mycroft had been about to allow himself some much needed sleep, when it belatedly occurred to him that he needed to call Annie and Len - two more people to hurt, because again, they were too honest to be given the truth.

oOo

FRIDAY, JUNE 17th, 2011

When he got back to his flat, Lestrade remembered the cheap bottle of whisky he'd shoved into the cupboard under the sink several weeks ago; wanting to avoid the necessity of thought, he set about getting drunk with the single-mindedness he'd applied to his job - when he'd had one.

Out of practice, he forgot to eat first and spent the last half of the night throwing up, but even that was better than trying to sleep.

He eventually fell into an exhausted doze just after five, only for the alarm clock to jolt him awake an hour later. When he remembered he had nowhere to be, he shut it off by throwing the clock at the far wall and stubbornly pulled the covers over his head.

Memories of the previous day lurching to the forefront of his brain banished all further hopes of sleep. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, with no idea of what he was going to do. He had never been so without purpose. Even before the age he could legally do so he had found paid work and here he was, forty six years old, with his personal and professional life in ruins, and a man he'd called friend dead because he'd let Sherlock down when he'd needed him the most.

His head pounding and his stomach disowning him, Lestrade got up to pour the remainder of the whisky down the sink, before taking two paracetamol.

Desperate to find out what had become of his team after his suspension, because they, too, were linked to Sherlock, he called Detective Inspector Dimmock at home.

"I'll save you the embarrassment of having to say it, I won't call again," Lestrade said into the appalled silence which echoed down the line after he had announced himself.

"Greg, it's not - "

"I know exactly what it is. What's happened to my people? And don't try to bullshit me. The whole Met. probably knows by now." "Donovan and Anderson have both been suspended, pending investigation. Word is, Anderson might be for the chop, given his position as Chief Forensic Officer. The rest of your team have been split up between a few of the other MITs, though they're likely to be stuck on desk duty for a while."

"Fuck," said Lestrade despondently. "Who've you got?"

"Eastly and Wanduragala."

"You've struck gold. But I'm going to want them back, so don't get used to them. And thanks."

"Watch your back, Greg."

"And here's me thinking that's what the top brass are for," said Lestrade sardonically.

He rang off and stood in the centre of his minimally furnished flat, listening to all the sounds of life outside.

Sherlock had loved London. He'd tried to pretend he didn't, but he loved every rubbish-strewn corner of it, had known his way around every backstreet. They'd had that much in common.

If only he'd stood up to the top brass when it had mattered, instead of throwing Sherlock to the wolves. He could have done better than a warning phone call.

Sherlock deserved better.

Had deserved better, he corrected himself, his mouth twisting.

He savagely pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to banish the image of Sherlock jumping because no one had believed in him, least of all the man he'd thought of as a friend - because he knew that Sherlock had thought of him that way, even if he could never be bothered to remember his first name.

　

　

There were few things worse than needing to keep busy while having nothing to do. At a loss how to fill his day, Lestrade went to see if Mrs Hudson needed anything.

"Only Sherlock," she said piteously, her mouth trembling. "Oh, Greg, I can't bear to think of him so desperate and all alone... I'm off to see John after lunch. I told them I was his mother, or they wouldn't have let me in yesterday. They had to send his sister packing. She was drunk, and abusive with it. I'm sorry to hear about your job," she added.

"My suspension made the news?" A wave of humiliation washed over him. But that accounted for the crawling sensation that he was being watched. He'd kept his head down and avoided everyone's eyes but he'd felt as if he'd lost a couple of layers of skin by the time he reached Baker Street.

"It's all over the news - and the picture didn't do you justice. Most of the item was still about Sherlock being a fraud."

"He wasn't," said Lestrade flatly.

"Well I know that!"

"How's Sherlock's brother?" asked Lestrade, not trusting himself to say Mycroft's name.

"I've no idea. I've not received so much as a phone call," Mrs Hudson said, her mouth thinning. "Well, I can't stop here gossiping. I must get this place tidy before I go back to the hospital."

Lestrade took the hint and left.

oOo

Mycroft registered Sherlock's death with the Registrar of Births and Deaths - the first of many offences he would be committing, and went straight back to work. Fortunately, surprisingly few people around Whitehall knew of his relationship with Sherlock, but the rest of the morning was still more taxing than he had anticipated. It was impossible not to dwell on how close they had come to disaster.

How close he had come to losing Gregory.

Gregory would believe Sherlock was dead and would be...devastated. He would blame himself, because he held himself to a ridiculously high standard and the guilt would eat at him.

And he could do nothing to comfort him, let alone tell him the truth, because Gregory was an even worse liar than John Watson.

Eventually conceding that his concentration wasn't what it should be, Mycroft left the temporary office he had been using in Whitehall and set off for Bart's hospital.

　

　

"Sir?" said Balasha, having been summoned by Mycroft's security detail, on the grounds there was a faint chance he might listen to her.

Mycroft left his car and stalked into the rear entrance of Barts, heading for the stairs which led up to the roof. "Humour me," he said, without slowing his pace.

A gesture from Balasha sent the security detail scurrying up ahead of them as she struggled to keep up with him. He was a studiedly languid man; this brisk bustle was untypical and it made her uneasy because she didn't understand what was behind it, given that Sherlock was alive.

"Go home," Mycroft told her, taking the first flight of stairs two at a time.

"Not until you do, sir."

He shrugged and took the second flight at an even faster pace.

Resigned, she went after him, grateful she was wearing only moderate heels.

Everything had changed in the last few months, to the point where she could no longer predict how he would react to a given situation. She had never heard him complain about the demands of his job, or the toll it took, and that much hadn't changed, but he had. There were none of the small flippant exchanges which had seen them through the most difficult of days and she missed his dry wit and tart asides. Something arctic and bleak had settled over him and she hadn't been able to find a way through that armour. He was now so contained, so inward looking, that there were days when she doubted he even noticed her and she loathed that soulless courtesy because she missed him, damn it.

She even missed being called 'Moneypenny' by a brown-eyed charmer.

Mycroft's relationship with DI Lestrade had crumbled just when she had been convinced they were set for life. Not that she knew how, or why - or even when, for certain. She only knew she couldn't remember the last time Mycroft had given anything but one of those electric light smiles which he flicked on and off whenever he deemed a smile to be expedient. It was one thing to use it in the back room at a G8 Summit, where the real work was done, but to use it on her...

It had been some time before she had realised he no longer had any servants, or any intention of finding new ones. That had been a disastrous decision because he didn't have the luxury of time in which to deal with domestic necessities - the trivia of everyday life. By the time she had realised, he was living on crackers and tinned soup, and running out of clean clothes.

It was almost as if he was punishing himself. Not for the vilification of his brother - it never did to take his relationship with Sherlock at face value. The guilt must be to do with DI Lestrade then, she mused, knowing she would never know more than that. She wasn't sure she wanted to: she was already far too involved in Mycroft's life.

She watched with some concern as Mycroft stalked across the roof, unerringly locating the spot from which Sherlock had jumped and standing far too close to the edge for her peace of mind.

　

　

Oblivious to Balasha's surveillance, Mycroft stared out across London. Every news broadcast, paper, blog and social networking site were still full of Sherlock's suicide and rehashes of the events leading up to his downfall. Caught in the fallout, Gregory had been suspended, and he could do nothing unless he wanted to draw the very attention he was trying to avoid. Gregory's only security detail were agents taken from MI6 - at least Gregory wouldn't recognise them, and their records said they were the best of an excellent bunch. He'd gone to some pains to ensure the only people in his section who knew the truth were Balasha, David and six of his most trusted agents.

John Watson had just been released from the a men's ward a few hundred yards away and Mrs Hudson was taking him home in a taxi, followed by a security team. He could only hope that Sherlock was right and that John had more mental strength than he gave him credit for because if John -

The day was overcast, a strong wind pushing clouds along, allowing tantalising glimpses of the sun. With no head for heights, Mycroft forced himself even closer to the edge of the roof. The wind whipped at the edges of his suit jacket, ruffled his hair and turned the tip of his long nose red. As he stared at the ground below, he gained a sharper appreciation of the measure of Sherlock's devotion to those he loved. When he'd jumped he couldn't have been certain he wouldn't die, but he'd done it anyway.

Despite all their planning, in the event there had been so little time to make the arrangements, too much had depended on Sherlock's band of 'Irregulars' - addicts and drunks, those who had lost everything. And they'd done it. They'd kept Sherlock alive. Nor had any of them gone to the press, although at least some of them must be aware enough to realise they could make a lot of money selling the story of the real fraud. Of course, they might yet, but short of clearing all the homeless from the streets and keeping them under arrest...

Not that he hadn't considered that it one of his more anxious moments...

A muscle jumping in his jaw, the expression in his eyes bleak, Mycroft stared down at the pavement, a portion still stained with the blood Sherlock had had the forethought to donate a few weeks ago, wondering if he would have had his brother's courage. Somehow he doubted it.

He kept reminding himself that Sherlock was safely away in Suffolk, complaining bitterly about the boredom. Standing here, it was difficult to credit their luck in getting away with it.

What the eventual consequences might be to those Sherlock loved, Mycroft preferred not to contemplate.

　

　

It was only when Lestrade left 221B that he realised how hungry he was, and so he called in at Speedy's next door. After two mugs of tea and a bacon buttie he was feeling distinctly more human. It helped that the guy serving him had had the decency to switch off the radio when the news came on; his suspension rated the second slot.

Even though the sun had gone in, Lestrade slipped on his sunglasses when he left the caféé. It was time to go to Bart's, to see Molly Hooper. In no hurry to get there, and eager to avoid public transport and any more unwanted attention, he walked to the hospital, timing his arrival to just after the time the mortuary assistants left for the day.

"Hello, Molly," he said, for the first time feeling awkward in her company.

"You look terrible, " she blurted out, taking a step back from him.

"You don't," noted Lestrade, surprised because Molly's crush on Sherlock was hardly a secret.

"That's because I didn't get pissed last night. How much did you drink?" she asked shrewdly.

Lestrade waved aside that irrelevance. "What's going on? Deepak said you performed Sherlock's autopsy." Despite himself, his voice cracked. The thought of that wonderful mind and all that incredible energy being dissected on a slab was hard to endure. That Molly had been able to do it was almost inconceivable.

"Don't look at me like that, Greg Lestrade! Someone had to look after him," said Molly, so fierce her voice shook.

While it was as unexpected as being savaged by a gerbil, Lestrade's expression became apologetic, his hands parting in a gesture of reassurance.

"I know, Molly, I know. I didn't mean it that way. Christ, I don't know what I meant. I keep hoping it's some bloody nightmare and that he'll come stalking in here, demanding - "

"Look, it's been a dreadful couple of days. I'm going home to...to mourn. Besides, you're suspended. You shouldn't even be in here," Molly added.

"I know. You should ring the Yard and report me," said Lestrade seriously. "I don't want to compromise your position." "Don't be ridiculous! What possible good would that do," she snapped, before her expression softened. "Are they trying to blame everything on you now...now Sherlock's not here?"

He shrugged. "Of course." Despite himself, his disillusion seeped through.

"I'm really sorry. But there's nothing I can do and you can't stay in here alone. Come on, I'll see you out before I lock up."

It wasn't until he stood in the corridor outside the mortuary, watching Molly hurry away, that it occurred to Lestrade to wonder why she was being so apologetic. In anyone else he would have been suspicious, but Molly seemed to have been born feeling guilty about something.

Propped against the wall, he tried to summon the energy and will to move.

Eventually he did what he had always intended to do and headed for the flight of stairs that led up to the roof. He ducked under the police tape and began to climb.

Three-quarters of the way up he stopped and sank onto the top step, slewing round so he could rest his back against the wall.

He didn't know if he could do this. Wasn't sure he could face seeing the spot where Sherlock had launched himself into space, believing himself friendless, believing everyone thought him a fraud.

The sound of footsteps from above made Lestrade raise his head incuriously, only to see Mycroft and Balasha coming down the stairs at speed. Mycroft didn't spare him a glance. As the swing doors slowly swung to a close behind them, Lestrade's eyes scrunched shut.

Of course Mycroft blamed him. He blamed himself.

That Sherlock, of all people, had been brought to a state of despair where he felt there was no one he could turn to... He must have felt abandoned by all those who should have protected him. As he should have done. As he would have done if he hadn't been so fucking gutless, more worried about his job than his friend. It had never crossed his mind that Sherlock's arrest would last longer than it took Mycroft to find out about it.

But try as he might, Lestrade kept seeing Sherlock spiralling down from the roof to his death.

　

　

Mycroft came to a halt two flights down from where Lestrade sat, breathing heavily, though from stress rather than exertion.

"Stay here," he told Balasha.

"Sir, you can't tell DI Lestrade the truth! He's a worse liar than John Watson," she said urgently, her voice pitched to carry no farther than Mycroft because the security detail were on the other side of the doors.

"I don't need you to tell me what I can and can't - " Mycroft stopped, took a steadying breath. "My apologies. It was a timely reminder."

"I'll wait here for you," she said steadily.

"Call the officer on the roof. Under no circumstances is Gregory to be given access. He's seen far too many crime scenes to be deceived for long and, as you say, he's a terrible liar."

　

　

Mycroft barrelled back through the swing doors to where Lestrade had been sitting, with no clear idea of what he would say. The bleak misery on Lestrade's ravaged face sent him skidding to his knees in front of him, one hand cupping the side of Gregory's stubble-roughened face, the other on his upraised knees.

"Nothing that happened is your fault! None of it!" Mycroft said fiercely, his quiet voice gravel-rough. "Hold fast. And keep safe."

He was gone before Lestrade thought to react.

Lestrade stared into the space Mycroft had occupied and gave an unpleasantly moist sniff. He fished for a handkerchief and blew his nose with some vigour. After all the emotions he had experienced since learning of Sherlock's death, he felt oddly numb, beyond trying to make sense of what had just happened.

Hold fast. To what? There was nothing left. Except a cold, unsteady hand clasping his face and that fierce blue gaze boring through his skull.

Mycroft didn't blame him.

His eyes closing, Lestrade took an unsteady breath, then another, wondering when he would stop blaming himself.

Mycroft had looked like death, he thought as he dug into the pocket of his jeans and produced a crumpled cigarette packet and lit a cigarette, the 'No Smoking' signs be damned.

Wreathed in smoke, he wondered how John was coping. John, who had watched Sherlock jump to his death in front of him, if the news broadcasts were to be believed.

He should go and see him.

Only not right now. Not until he could be sure he wouldn't bawl like a baby.

It hadn't occurred to him that Mycroft would be here.

God, he missed him.

oOo

Because any attempt to delay the inquest into the death of Sherlock Holmes would have caused another media storm, Mycroft took the opposite course and ensured it was held as quickly as possible.

On Wednesday the 22nd June, the inquest opened in the City of London Coroner's court. Even the tabloids were hard-pressed to sensationalise events there. The hearing lasted exactly fourteen minutes. Molly Hooper was not required to attend, her report enough, and Mycroft had ensured that, if required, there were enough witnesses to Sherlock's jump to spare John Watson the ordeal of giving evidence.

For his own part, Mycroft calmly confirmed the identification of his brother's body, and state of mind prior to jumping. And throughout, he accepted that, quite apart from the fact he was committing perjury, he was surrendering what little remained of his honour. And it stung, more than he had expected. Which was ridiculous, of course, in view of the lies he told every day. Nevertheless...it stung.

As expected, the coroner authorised the release of Sherlock's body so the funeral could take place without unnecessary delay, his death ruled a suicide.

Back at his desk, deep in the bowels of the Diogenes Club, Mycroft drank a double brandy and smoked three cigarettes, one after the other, in strict contravention of the no smoking policy in place. Now he had a funeral to arrange...

oOo

It seemed inevitable that it should rain on the day of Sherlock's funeral. But the umbrella made a useful shield for the self-disgust Mycroft felt, as lie piled upon lie, and all to people he loved. But at least Sherlock was safely under guard in Suffolk while they cremated and scattered the ashes of the dissected remains of James Moriarty.

There were few mourners. Mrs Hudson had organised John Watson, and clung firmly to his arm throughout; neither of them spoke to Mycroft, although she'd had the good sense to make use of the car he had provided.

He had deliberately not informed Lestrade of the funeral - that one lie too far.

Eventually it was done.

Mycroft returned to his office to check the security tapes - he'd had the entire area around crematorium, then church, under minute surveillance in the hope that one of Moriarty's team might be there.

"Sir, David and I can see to those," protested Balasha.

His jacket removed and shirt sleeves unfastened and folded back, Mycroft removed his tie before waving her away.

"Though I would appreciate some tea," he murmured blandly.

Even that failed to distract her.

Then he forgot everything, freezing on an image, his expression intent.

There, in the bushes only feet from Sherlock's graveside, was Gregory's childhood Nemesis, Armon. But whether he was trying to ascertain if Sherlock was really dead, or what had become of Moriarty...

He ordered the checking of all CCTV camera in the area close to the small Midland village where the churchyard was located in the hope of being able to track Armon and increased surveillance on Lestrade.

oOo

Lestrade had been avoiding the news, for obvious reasons, so he knew nothing of Sherlock's funeral until he saw the headline on the Evening Standard news vendor's stand, just outside the underground station.

He snatched up a paper, absently handing over a five pound note, before wandering off as he read the front page.

At least this explained why journalists kept ringing him for a statement..

But all he could focus on was the fact Mycroft had deliberately excluded him from paying his last respects...

oOo

JUNE-JULY 2011

Mycroft was so busy that it was a while before he became aware of the 'I believe in Sherlock' graffetti which had begun to appear. While, obviously, he had plans to debunk Brooks/Moriarty's reputation and restore Sherlock's, public opinion swiftly began to turn in Sherlock's direction as those he had helped came forward with their stories. And that was before the Guardian, Telegraph and Times all began their own investigations.

"If they get stuck, see they're nudged in the right direction," Mycroft told Balasha, before he headed off to the Department of Transport. Now, more than ever, it was essential to maintain his cover.

oOo

Had there been anyone to tell, Lestrade would have freely admitted that he gave up for a while - shaving was the first thing to go, while he lived on takeaways and beer, doing little but watch Daytime TV. After ten days of wallowing in self-pity, he woke up late one morning and knew he couldn't go on like this.

He might be a failure when it came to relationships, but he had successfully held down a responsible job for years. He needed mental stimulation - a purpose. Though the way he was feeling, it might be as well to start slow.

Without enthusiasm he cleaned the flat from top to bottom. There was no point trying to make it more comfortable. If he and Mycroft got back together - which was looking increasingly unlikely - he wouldn't need the place. If they didn't, he'd leave London.

On the way back from the supermarket, having stocked up on fresh food because he'd put on six pounds in ten days on the couch potato/fast food diet, he came across a couple of homeless men begging for enough money to buy cheap bottles of cider. He detoured to buy them sandwiches and a hot drink before heading home. He never had managed to identify the last few homeless victims of Moriarty and Armon. Filled with a new purpose, Lestrade spent twelve to sixteen hours out of every twenty four on the streets. His now healthy growth of beard and decorating clothes, combined with patience and an ability to coax information from a stone, meant he received a better reception than he had expected. Eventually he met people who knew him through Sherlock and because of that he was trusted - to a degree. While he was no closer to identifying any of the missing, he had the minor satisfaction of managing to steer a few people into shelters and rehab., contacts made over the years coming in useful.

But he slept badly, his investigations rekindling the times in his childhood when the streets had seemed safer than his Care Home. Wherever he went, he couldn't shake off the feeling he was being watched - though given how often his face had been in the media over recent months he supposed that wasn't surprising. Despite his own edginess, he never spotted Armon again, but he couldn't shake off the feeling his was close by.

oOo

Mycroft's investigation into finding the mole was going badly, the painstaking checking and cross-checking only confirming the innocence of one agent after another.

Worry and over-work continued to take their toll. Their only minor success was the speed with which they were reeling in the threads of Moriarty's criminal empire, helped by all the in-fighting for power going on between various lieutenants.

Mindful of his responsibilities, Mycroft kept Watson under level two surveillance. He only went to see him once after the funeral. As he had anticipated, the visit was not a success.

"I wonder if I could shoot you before your security got in here," said Watson, in a disquieting, conversational tone. He seemed to have aged ten years.

"That would depend on the whereabouts of your gun. Surely, even you realise that isn't a action Sherlock would advocate," said Mycroft calmly.

"Don't fucking talk to me about what Sherlock would and wouldn't advocate. You're the reason he's dead!"

Watson launched himself to his feet but aborted the blow at the last minute, much to Mycroft's relief because his physical dexterity was not to be relied upon at the best of times.

"You're nothing like him! Nothing! But I see you and..." Watson backed away and slumped onto his chair, avoiding looking at Mycroft.

"It's your fault Sherlock's dead," Watson continued dully. "And I will never forgive you for that betrayal. Don't come back. Not that I'll be here. I'm moving out on Friday."

Mycroft didn't point out that he already knew that. "You've found alternative accommodation?"

"Obviously. Don't visit."

"If that's what you wish. You and Mrs Hudson will continue to be protected, however. It appears that Moriarty hired three sharpshooters to kill the three people Sherlock loved the most - yourself, Mrs Hudson, and DI Lestrade. The only way Sherlock could save you all was by jumping. It would be a poor memorial to my brother if anything were to happen to you."

Devastated, Watson stared up at him. "He killed himself to save me?" His voice cracked on the last word.

"And Mrs Hudson and DI Lestrade." "You think I care what happens to me?"

"I'm sure you don't, at the moment. But he would. And it would negate everything he tried to achieve," Mycroft added, yet to be convinced that they hadn't misjudged Watson's strength of character. "Incidentally, you won't be charged for assaulting Detective Chief Superintendent Robinson and breaking his nose."

Watson looked up at him then, rage smouldering under his faux calm. "You seriously expect me to care?"

"Sherlock would," said Mycroft.

Watson launched himself from his chair and out of the living room door, as if he no longer trusted himself to be in Mycroft's company.

Mycroft exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. It had gone better than he had expected. So far, so good.

oOo

Lestrade continued to make contacts on the streets, until there were a lot of people on the look out for Armon.

Then a chance remark led him to helping to renovate a derelict house as a homeless shelter. Lestrade learned new skills alongside the homeless; the hard physical work and long hours meant that over the weeks he turned an enviable nut-brown as he became fitter than he had been for years. And he was kept so busy that sometimes a couple of hours went by before he thought about Sherlock - or Mycroft.

oOo

Mrs Hudson tolerated Mycroft's monthly visits.

Each time he visited there was a cake, sometimes fresh, sometimes stale. He did his best to choke down a slice - ironic, given that in the past he would have devoured the whole cake in one sitting.

She eyed him anxiously when she thought he wouldn't notice. Her concern only added to his sense of guilt.

His entire life was spend peddling lies, but this, this was proving more wearing than he had anticipated.

But at least he could be certain she would survive. Unlike John Watson, who continued to give cause for concern.

But threading everything Mycroft did was his worry for Lestrade, who had no one to comfort him. He'd lost a lover, a friend, and his career was on hold until the IPCC had finished their investigation. Gregory had a generous heart, but even he would not be able to forgive the monstrous trick which had been played on him.


End file.
